


Good with Goodbye

by Verbyna



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Biting, Bruises, Casual Sex, Future Fic, Kent "Hit Me Baby One More Time" Parson, M/M, Masturbation, Painplay, Porn With Plot, Subdrop, Submission, Subspace, Under-negotiated Kink, Unrequited Crush, improvised restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3815014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/pseuds/Verbyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent was alone after Jack. He doesn’t think he can do it again, even if this time it’s sex without friendship and not the other way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good with Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> If anything from the tags is triggering for you, please hit the Back button. Many thanks to the Parse Twitter crew (especially to **jedusaur** for being hilariously on point and to **reserve** for the beta). ♠ #kentparsonisaloneandiamfine

Eric looks up from where he’s pulling off Kent’s pants and smirks.

“Did you wax?”

Kent shrugs and pushes his pants down the rest of the way, shivering when Eric’s cold hands slip off the fabric and land on his hips. He lets the pants slide down to his ankles on their own and leans back, legs spreading to make room for Eric. He doesn’t expect Eric to kneel on the pants and spread his own legs, trapping Kent’s ankles in the fabric; he keeps forgetting that Eric is heavier than anyone Kent’s slept with before, and not afraid to pin him down. That it even occurs to him to pin Kent down, when he’s clearly not going anywhere until they’re done.

It’s kind of weird, but also kind of fun. Like Eric.

Kent lays back down and shoves his forearms under the pillow, lacing his fingers to lift it a bit and support his neck. Everything aches during the season; he has bruises on his arms, his ribs, even the top of his right foot, which hurts dully from the stretched cotton Bitty’s pressing against it. He tries to look at Eric without moving his head, but from this angle he can only see his messed-up hair where he’s hovering over Kent’s crotch, basically breathing on his exposed dick.

“I cannot believe you waxed. Where did you go?”

“I got those wax strip things. Razor burn is for the weak,” Kent tells him, which is kind of a dick move. They’ve been shaving as long as they’ve been fucking and they’re both sensitive enough to keep aloe vera in their duffels. He just hated the way it felt to get ready for their meet-ups. It made it hard to cancel if he went through all that trouble.

It made it feel like he wanted it too badly.

“Pretty hurts,” Eric sing-songs.

“Can you just--” Kent starts to say, strained, but Eric’s laughing around his dick now, so he shuts up before he embarrasses himself.

He closes his eyes and tries to relax. The lube is on the bed, because Eric is always prepared, but he never gives Kent the choice on when he starts using his fingers. That’s a good thing: if he asked, Kent would say he doesn’t want them, and Eric would listen, laughing at him all the while. He’s still laughing now, probably at Kent’s attempt to chill before Eric is good and ready to let him chill.

He hears the tube snap open and waits, spreading his legs a little wider than is strictly comfortable, but nothing happens for a whole minute. His fingers are cramping with how hard he’s trying to keep his hands from reaching down. Eric’s tongue under the head of his dick is their only point of contact and Kent is holding himself open and it hurts, it actually hurts, his hands and feet and thighs and the bruise on his ribs where his muscles are straining.

Just when he figures he’s about to do something stupid, something else gives, and he relaxes into it instead. Not in stages, but all at once. Eric moves off his dick to bite lightly on the inside of Kent’s left thigh, a warning just a couple of seconds before he slides a finger into Kent’s ass. Kent gives a full-body shiver, but that’s it; it’s that easy.

It’s basically every jerk-off fantasy Kent’s had since they started doing this back in January, and he still has no idea how it works out. There’s never any resistance when Eric does it; every time he tries to do it by himself, Kent can’t get past the first knuckle. He’s not complaining or anything - he’s not sure he can even speak right now, and he definitely won’t be talking about it later - but it’s still weird.

“Shh,” Eric says, “steady now, sugar. Almost there.”

Kent loses track of time after that. Eric adds another finger, adjusts the angle, keeps biting whenever Kent twitches too hard and humming against the bruise when Kent’s steady; another finger, another bite, and Kent’s coming all over his stomach. It burns where his skin’s still tender from the wax, which only adds to the feeling until he’s melting into the mattress, overwhelmed. Jesus _fuck_.

Eric pulls Kent’s slack arms away from the pillow and uses Kent’s left hand to jerk himself off while Kent comes down. Kent wants to watch - if nothing else, Eric is fucking pretty to look at - but it’s over before Kent is fully functional.

“I was gonna do something about that,” he says ( _slurs_ ). And he totally was; excellence should be rewarded. Eric just shrugs and gets off the bed to get dressed, pristine except for his mussed up hair in the artificial hotel room light.

Kent manages to pull the duvet up from the foot of the bed and roll over onto his side before he covers up. He’s shivering a little. He tries to smirk when Eric glances his way, but it comes out as more of a smile, maybe even a grimace. He’s not sure what he’s doing other than baring his teeth. Luckily, Eric’s too busy with his phone to see it.

“Score one for me in the game tomorrow,” Eric offers as a parting shot a moment later. “I’m watching it with Chowder.”

The door closes behind him without a sound. Kent stares at it for a while, waiting to get warm under the duvet. He’s not actually cold, as far as he can tell, but the shivering is getting worse. His teeth are clattering; he can’t feel his fingers where they’re holding on to the pillow.

He’s seen panic attacks before, being Jack’s friend. That’s not what this is.

His thoughts are jumbled; he spaces out thinking about where Eric is in the building, but he can’t remember the layout that well. He’s not even sure what floor he’s on, just that it’s pretty high. Eric could be outside the hotel already. He could be walking to the train station right now, on his way back to the Haus, and never pick up for Kent again if Jack figures out what he wants from Eric. This isn’t a permanent thing, but what if it’s over?

What if he’s not ready?

Kent was alone after Jack. He doesn’t think he can do it again, even if this time it’s sex without friendship and not the other way around. He’s so fucking angry at himself, in a distant sort of way, for not being good at goodbyes. For being just as needy at twenty-four as he was at eighteen, after everything he’s achieved in the meantime. Kent won the fucking Stanley Cup and here he is, huddling on a hotel bed in Boston, like Juniors all over again.

He fumbles for his phone on the nightstand and scrolls to Eric’s entry in the contacts, but when he tries to figure out what he’s going to say when (if) Eric picks up, he draws a blank.

_Come back?_

_We have to stop?_

For fuck’s sake.

He spends so long thinking about it that his shivering subsides, leaving him floaty and kind of blank. It doesn’t matter what he wants to say, does it, when he can’t even make the call. He checks the time on his phone and realizes it’s been half an hour since Eric left; he still has two hours until the team is meeting in the lobby to catch their flight.

In the shower, an hour later, he gets himself off with a hand pressing against every bruise he can find. He’ll be fine. He tells himself that, _I’ll be fine_ , until he comes with a shout that doesn’t sound like anyone’s name - not Eric’s, not Jack’s - and then he gets on with packing his stuff.

It’s not over yet; who knows, Jack might never figure his shit out. Kent is fucking fine with that. He’s learned to take what he can get and be happy with it. He’s not the one waiting for Jack this time.

He’s not waiting for anything.


End file.
